Saturday Morning Confusion
by Lone Gunwoman of the Week
Summary: Two words: Dog. Whistle.


Title: Saturday Morning Confusion  
  
Author: rogue_streak  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Category: Humor, Movieverse, some X2AU  
  
Spoilers: virtually none, other than a mention or two of Scott's motorbike.  
  
Summary: Two words: Dog. Whistle.  
  
Disclaimer: Iceman, Pyro, Colossus, and any other character  
  
mentioned herein is the property of Marvel Comics *insert   
  
religious chanting here*.  
  
Notes: For those who have seen the movie or aren't spoiler-shy, the X2AU bits are as follows: Logan is back, Jean is alive (and not blind, if you've read the book), and St. John is still at the mansion. The Bobby/St. John dynamic in this story is largely inspired by Chris Claremont's novelization of X2, and much of the fanfiction at the WRFA, particularly the "Love and Lust at Mutant High" series by jenn. "Saturday Morning Confusion" by Bobby Russel is a favorite of mine. The name fits. Yes, the third floor hallway is a "Sorcerer's Stone" reference. I couldn't resist. The Logan/Fluffy parallels were too much. Oh, and the Midwest comment? A nod to my very Iowan paramour.  
  
Warning: I've written in other fandoms, but this is my first X-Men story. Please be gentle, if not kind.   
  
Dedications: This one's for Tony and F.C. : Tony, for fervently encouraging his girlfriend's fannish ways, and F.C., for being a complete and utter enabler.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"You do it."  
  
"You do it.  
  
"*You* do it!"  
  
"*YOU* do it!"  
  
"Man, you gotta do it! It was your idea."  
  
"Whose idea? You *bought* the damn thing!"  
  
"You're the one who spotted it at the pet store--"  
  
"Forget it."  
  
"--between the Milk Bones and the chew toys."  
  
Like any boarding school, Saturday mornings were something of a free for all at the X-mansion. Dozens of kids of all ages running giddily throughout the house many of them still clad in their pajamas, free from the confines of classes, some sleeping in, others piling into the rec room for six or seven hours of cartoons, others working towards depleting the kitchen's entire supply of sugar coated cereal, if only for the nifty prize (which, this month, happened to be a He-Man figurine) that languished at the bottom of the box. Some would accomplish all three before the day was out. Weekends at home with the twist of often being miles away from home.   
  
And at the X-mansion - a boarding school for young mutants - as with any other boarding school, no loud arguments would normally be allowed to be carried out in the middle of the teachers' hallway at nine a.m. on a Saturday, while respected and no doubt fatigued educators slept soundly behind their respective doors.  
  
Not that *all* the rooms in the third floor hallway were reserved for teachers. The students known as Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee shared a room next to Ororo Munroe, the history teacher, and the mutant called Wolverine had a suite two doors down from theirs. Although Wolverine wasn't a teacher, he was rumored to be taking over Cyclop's self-defense class at the beginning of the following semester. A rumor that delighted as many students as it filled with mortal terror.  
  
And not that *any* of the teachers could be found asleep in their rooms at nine a.m. anyway. Although they were permitted to sleep in, just as their students were, few of them seemed to take advantage of it. Cyclops and Dr. Grey, accustomed to their weeklong schedules of early classes, could be found in their respective offices by eight. Storm could often be found taking a leisurely stroll on the grounds or tending to her small garden on the south side of the mansion around nine-thirty or ten. Professor Xavier, himself, didn't appear to need sleep and, if he did, he apparently slept at his desk.   
  
Only the newest addition to the school seemed to be enjoying the opportunity afforded. The Wolverine didn't roll out of bed one minute before eleven, and best of luck to the poor soul who stomped a little too loud outside his door and changed that.   
  
With such grave threats coming from such an extreme source, it didn't take long for word to spread: on Saturday mornings, tread lightly down the third floor hallway, lest ye wake the sleeping Wolvster.  
  
This fact served as a great source of, however mingled with abject fear, amusement for many of the older students; some of whom took up the sport of sending their younger, more naive classmates on   
  
errands that required them to run down the so-called "forbidden passage" at the ungodly hour of eight seventeen in the morning, then sitting on the upper parts of the stairwell to observe the inevitable slaughter.  
  
A guaranteed laugh, but not made to last.   
  
After the first few weeks, many of the burned had begun issuing warnings to incoming students. Not too long after that, the teachers themselves picked up on the sudden rush of rowdy kids that always   
  
seemed to flood the third floor hallway precisely at the moment Logan was trying to sleep. A quick interview with each of the reported offenders had answered any questions they might have had about such a coincidence and, for the older kids at least, the party was over. Reprimands were made, detentions were handed out, and the sport of furthering their peers' misfortune was rendered defunct.  
  
The backlash, of course, didn't take long. With their favorite Saturday past time suddenly gone, students like Bobby Drake and St. John Allardyce had to find other means with which to keep themselves occupied. For them, this meant diving headlong into a series of weekly pranks.   
  
Well, not exactly *weekly*. They weren't that planned. None of them were planned per se, so much as calculated and executed on a spur of the moment, owing much to Bobby's creativity and St. John's   
  
impulsive nature. The idea to smear peanut butter inside the lenses of Mr. Summers' work goggles had come on a midnight run to the kitchen to finish off the last of the Domino's deep dish special leftover from dinner. Rehooking the cable so the television in Storm's room only played the weather channel stemmed from some frustration with the rec room's television's recently blocked Playboy channel.   
  
And not all were retalitory against the teachers that had spoiled their fun. Freezing all the toilets in the second floor boy's bathroom had come on an excursion that was fairly self-explanatory, and had been based on pure whim. As had the spontaneous combustion of Jubilee's underwear drawer. If any of the teachers suspected - and how they hadn't yet was a mystery, no one had confronted them.   
  
So the game continued to play itself out.  
  
This particular idea had come to them at the Salem Center shopping mall, trailing behind Kitty and Jubilee from store to store, hardly looking up from the comics they were reading. When they finally did, they realized they had followed their classmates into Pass Pets, unwitting participants in Kitty's search for a collar for her Mom's newly acquired pet gila monster, Rusty.   
  
People from the Midwest were so weird.  
  
Wandering the aisles of the pet store, the seed of an idea was planted and The Perfect Prank was born. One to be savored and laughed over for years to come, aimed, of course, at the one who had made this all possible in the first place.  
  
Revenge was sweet, payback a bitch, and justice theirs for $3.98.   
  
And now, in this their moment of triumph, they were too busy arguing over who would get to do the honors:  
  
"I'm not doing it."  
  
"Come on, man--"  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"He won't kill *you*. You're dating his sister, for God's sakes!"   
  
"*Practically* his sister. And all the more reason."  
  
"laughs Yeah."  
  
"Why do I think you *want* me to get killed?"  
  
"What can I say, man? It'd make my day."  
  
"Yeah, until the next history test. Or the next time Jubilee needs a shopping partner."  
  
"Whatever, dude. You're such a wuss."  
  
"Well, if I'm such a wuss, you do it."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"FINE."  
  
A beat.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"I'm getting ready."  
  
"scoffs Wuss."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"Hey guys, what's going on?"  
  
The two boys looked up to see the earnest face of Peter Rasputin towering over them, a carton of chocolate milk in one hand, an Honors Biology text in the other.  
  
"Peter! Good to see you. Here, blow this whistle."  
  
"Pete, no!"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Dude, just do it. It's a surprise."  
  
Before Bobby could jump the two and a half feet to grab it, Peter had traded off the milk to St. John and brought the small whistle to his lips.  
  
/phfffffffff!/  
  
Bracing themselves for the sounds of tearing flesh and bones and metal colliding with..well, bones and metal, Bobby and St. John peered tentatively up from their crouched positions on the floor when only silence ensued. Peter, oblivious as to the true nature of his classmates horror, was unfazed.  
  
"It's broken," he said simply, peering at the cylindrical metal   
  
between his fingers.  
  
"Try it again."  
  
"Pete!"  
  
/phfffffffffffffffff!/  
  
More crouching. More silence. Confusion riddled the faces of the two teenage boys as they stood up, while their friend studied their favored toy.  
  
"It's not working," he repeated, shaking the whistle slightly.  
  
"What's not working?"  
  
The serene figure of Storm suddenly appeared before them, the door to her bedroom shutting behind her. Bobby and St. John shifted from confusion, past surprise and straight into terror as they speculated as to how much their teacher had heard of their exchange and what she may have known. Peter, again oblivious but sensing his friends' discomfort, simply greeted his teacher with a slight smile and wave.  
  
"Peter, don't you have a Biology make-up with Doctor Grey this afternoon?"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Munroe," the perceptive giant thrust the whistle into Bobby's hand, quickly retrieving his milk carton from St. John's hand, disappearing down the hall that would take him to the medlab.  
  
The silver-haired teacher turned to the two remaining students, an amused but firm expression frozen to her delicate features.   
  
"Boys, was there something I could help you with?"  
  
"Uh, no Ms. Munroe, we just.."  
  
"Well, you see, uh--"  
  
"Wolverine--"  
  
"*Logan*," Storm anunciated, "is in the garage, working on his motorcycle."  
  
"*My* motorcycle," Cyclops, having just emerged from his own suite, corrected as he strode past the trio toward the elevator.  
  
Oh.   
  
Ding dong. Tension drained out of the ice fiend and pyrokinetic almost as quickly as it was restored, renewed by the subtle glint in their history teacher's eyes.  
  
"Uh, Ms. Munroe, we were just--"  
  
"Jones, Siryn, and some of the younger children have had quite the morning going through the kitchen's boxes of General Mills cereal. Something about needing Panthor and Orko to complete their collection?"  
  
At the image of four or five second graders pouring out boxes of Apple Jacks, Corn Pops, Frosted Flakes in bowls, on the counter, on the floor, in their fervent search for their coveted figures, Bobby and St. John let out a simultaneous inward groan so loud, Dr. Grey had to have heard it five levels down.  
  
"Perhaps you'd care to.. lend a hand in the cleanup efforts?" Storm smiled, her expression belying just how little choice they had in the matter.  
  
Visibly disheartened, the two boys started down the hall in the direction of the kitchen.  
  
"Bobby?" Storm called out to the retreating pair. At the Iceman's confused expression, she held out one hand - palm up.   
  
"Oh, right," he slipped the whistle into Storm's outstretched hand before rejoining St. John.  
  
Watching as the two boys rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, the small bit of tin in Storm's hand brought a rush of pure whimsy. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, she brought the mouthpiece to her lips.  
  
/phfffffffff!/  
  
Her momentary lapse was quickly interrupted by a nearby door slamming open.  
  
"WILL SOMEBODY STOP BLOWIN' THAT DAMN WHISTLE!?! PEOPLE ARE TRYIN' TA SLEEP IN HEAH!!"  
  
The weather goddess summarily dropped the tiny whistle into her jacket pocket and waited until the door slammed shut before retreating toward the elevator. Scott was waiting there, a knowing smile on his face.  
  
"So that's who got into my goggles."  
  
"Was there ever a doubt?"  
  
"So, what now? More detention? Phone calls home?"  
  
"No, somehow I think Rogue will figure out a more fitting punishment than we could in this case."  
  
And if Rogue had absorbed anything more from Logan than just his sensitive hearing, she had a feeling said punishment would be no laughing matter.  
  
******************************************************************** 


End file.
